


when will the blood outrun you, James?

by viciouslittlewords



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, M/M, i just wanted to write something and i'm trying to figure out who i think james and q are, idk what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 05:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10610247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viciouslittlewords/pseuds/viciouslittlewords
Summary: Q has tuned James out now, staring at him, raking his eyes up and down a body littered with bruises and cuts, though thankfully no bullets today. He suppresses a shiver, watching as Q’s mouth softens, blunt front teeth biting into a bottom lip, making it look more vividly cherry in the lamplight.James brings up his sharpest grin, the one he knows makes him look like he could have tiny shards of glass waiting in the corner of his lips, excited to cut someone up. His grin is part of what gets him into the right beds most of the time. They always grasp his chin with their equally sharp painted nails and whisper like a prayer by god that smile before they take the glass shards into their pretty mouths. James always wishes they wouldn’t. Wishes he wasn’t quite so good. All good has gotten him is a train of dead bodies chugging behind him, pulling on his conscience. One day it will surely pull him down to the depths, but he realizes, as Q leans forward only for a moment before jerking himself upright and away from James’s too sharp edges, perhaps not this time.-Or the one where James would take blood over dirt any day.





	

He hates the fucking dirt.

James knows he’s not supposed to, knows that training is supposed to strip you bare of hates and likes and wants and wishes, flay you till you are unbreakable ivory bone. But, he reasons, nobody’s perfect, and he just really hates the fucking dirt.

He resists the urge to scratch his face off as he waits in Q’s office. Mud is stuck to his skin, crusting in the wrinkles near his eyes. Why must so many missions require him to lie waiting in the dirt? Why must it always rain during those times? There are a million preferable things to lying in the dirt, James thinks, including being crushed beneath a semi, being held at gunpoint, being tortured in any capacity is looking really good right now in comparison, honestly, just by fucking god, the _dirt_ -

“007.”

James turns slowly in protest to being startled. It’s embarrassing because Q is not a secret agent but not as embarrassing as one might think. Q does have a ghostly quality about him, something that pulls James forward to try and keep him in focus, as if perhaps he may just be cigarette smoke, uncatchable and curling it’s way around your outstretched fingers. Maybe it’s an MI6 requirement, the ability to fade into nothing, to crawl into spaces no one else can and set up camp, staking out your territory.

Dirt is like that too, James thinks. He can never get the shit out from under his nails. Good-for-nothing, crevice-holding MI6 dirt, that’s all any of them are. But no, Q isn’t dirt. James thinks of the way his eyes go cold as he presses the buttons that end people. No, Q is blood, seeping and angry through a wound. Unstoppable blood, red, sticky, sweet blood.

“Q,” he nods, taking in the deep red sweater Q is wearing. He digs into his pocket, pointedly does not wrinkle his nose at the tough, mud-encrusted fabric, and holds up a USB. “I figured you’d want your present sooner rather than later.”

Moving forward and deftly taking the stick, Q hums in satisfaction, setting his fresh cup of already-forgotten tea down on a server as he makes his way to his desk. James only hesitates a moment before claiming it for himself. Q should no better than to leave something so tempting lying around. He finishes the tea while Q types reverently, the way he always does, like he’s writing important poetry. He suppresses a smile; Q certainly has the looks for a poet, all dark and thin with an expressive mouth.

“007, could you hand me my tea?” Q doesn’t look away from the screen as he holds out his hand absently, doesn’t notice the cup is empty until he’s brought it to his mouth.

He peers over the edge of his glasses at James, mouth pinched. “I was intending on drinking that, you know.”

James shrugs, dislodging some dried mud from his shoulder. Q watches it fall, sighs, and stands.

“You’re dropping dirt on my carpet again,” he holds his hand out for James jacket. “You know how I feel about the carpet.”

Now that Q has offered, James is throwing all of his clothes at him, till he’s down to nothing but his only slightly browned pants. “I believe you said ‘For Christ’s sake, Bond, it’s an antique, do you know how much money it takes to get this cleaned?’ And then you yelled some more but I’d tuned you out by then.”

Q has tuned James out now, staring at him, raking his eyes up and down a body littered with bruises and cuts, though thankfully no bullets today. He suppresses a shiver, watching as Q’s mouth softens, blunt front teeth biting into a bottom lip, making it look more vividly cherry in the lamplight.

James brings up his sharpest grin, the one he knows makes him look like he could have tiny shards of glass waiting in the corner of his lips, excited to cut someone up. His grin is part of what gets him into the right beds most of the time. They always grasp his chin with their equally sharp painted nails and whisper like a prayer _by god that_ _smile_ before they take the glass shards into their pretty mouths. James always wishes they wouldn’t. Wishes he wasn’t quite so good. All good has gotten him is a train of dead bodies chugging behind him, pulling on his conscience. One day it will surely pull him down to the depths, but he realizes, as Q leans forward only for a moment before jerking himself upright and away from James’s too sharp edges, perhaps not this time.

“I was asking for your jacket not your dry-cleaning,” Q says dryly.

“Sorry. My mistake.”

Q chucks the spare blanket on the couch at his head. “Quite,” he says, sitting back at his desk. “Thank you for the bringing the information in 007.”

James sits down on the couch in response and stares at Q for a while.

“You are dismissed, Bond.”

He hums in response, spreading himself more fully out on the couch lazily. Q cuts him a sharp look, wondering what he is doing here, mostly naked on Q’s work couch, the blanket lying useless on the floor with mud still crusted into the aging lines on his face.

He takes Q in, the shadow of him, the cut of his jaw, and something in him wants to lean forward, to bite at it, just to see what happens, what would come spilling out. James has always liked blood much more than dirt. Blood is human, blood has a purpose. Blood makes his body sing, brings him to peak efficiency as he works against a clock.

_When will the blood out run you, James?_

He gets up suddenly, needing to do, needing to stop thinking when it comes to Q’s red poet’s mouth and when he kisses Q it is fierce and cutting but Q is greedy swallowing glass shards like he understands and when he bites James’s lip hard enough to spill blood James realizes perhaps he is not the only one with a shattered mouth trying to scratch someone else up.

He pulls back, cupping Q’s face with his palms. He tongues at his bloody lip, looks at the dirt he has streaked on to Q’s face and smiles. He hates the dirt but if it doesn’t look good on Q’s prim and proper skin, all dark and marking. He leans in for one more bruising kiss, enjoying the way Q’s blunt nails are pulling at his hurt ribs, before backing away entirely.

“Goodnight Quartermaster.”

Q is swallowing, pupils blown wide, expressive mouth practically keening with want. “Goodnight 007.” For all he looks like James could have him on the antique carpet, cleaning fees be damned, his voice is as steady and capable as ever, the same as it is when he’s talking James through disabling a bomb.

James leaves, heading home to let the shower steam melt the dirt from his skin, sucking happily on his bleeding mouth.

There’s nothing quite like the metallic taste of blood to lift a man’s mood and knowing the blood will not outrun him. He pictures Q in his red sweater, his knowing eyes and splintered mouth.

Well, the blood will not outrun him _today_. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic in ages and I've never written for the 00Q fandom before but I just figured I'd do a little experiment. Comments and feedback are always welcome and appreciated :) Sorry for the mistakes, this wasnt looked over by a beta and i didn't really want to reread it.


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